Butterfly
by Roach Patrol
Summary: So what if Nny really had picked an irritating wheezy street performer? Two unlikely wouldbe victims come together in an unexpected way. Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

Imagine a butterfly. See it float on the breeze, turned this way and that, fragile little wings held stiffly as it lands on the stem of a flower, any flower, one flower out of a million.

And maybe it flaps its wings.

And maybe it doesn't.

OOO

James Cerrington woke up slowly, taking the usual inventory of his physical status. Headache, that was usual, the bruise on his shoulder, that was fading, too old to have a bite in it anymore, twisted ankle, yeah, that was from last week, definitely better, he could recall walking with it, toothache, nothing new, itchy wrist, gashes healing nicely, skinned up knuckles, yeah, that was when his file had slipped, ribs felt like they'd been half caved in. That was new. Huh. He couldn't remember getting hit in the ribs. And the headache felt a lot grittier than a hangover. And he felt so tired…And his throat hurt.

Make that, his throat hurt, a lot.

Ribs, too.

A hell of a lot.

He cracked an eye open, the one closest to the floor, impression first- white. Hospital? Nah, he wouldn't be. Open both eyes…room. Small room. White room. He was on a cot, gray plaid, white top sheet, checkered light gray blanket. Warm. What the-? It wasn't a padded cell, he knew he looked too young to be carted off to a nut house. That came in handy, although it was a royal pain in the ass when it came to getting booze.

So, sitting up- he made the attempt and gave up immediately as his newly acquired splintered ribs screamed. Wasn't going to happen. Fuck. So, further inventory- he could feel the fabric against his shoulders, arms, stomach, feet. That would make it pants, definitely, and either his shirt had gotten bunched up or someone had bandaged him. That would be logical, if anyone would bother. Which they wouldn't.

Only they did. James felt the stiff roll of gauze with a growing sense of bewilderment.

"Oh, you're awake."

James glanced sharply over his shoulder with an ugly snarl, partly out of habitual menace and partly because something shifted under the bandages and pulled painfully. There was a man in the doorway, holding a bowl of soup in his hands and a pillow under his arm. Built like a beanpole, long face, neatly parted brown hair, trimmed goatee. Round glasses. Grayish green shirt, brown pants…didn't seem aggressive. Probably gay. Fags were easier to deal with than most. After a moment, the man walked cautiously to his side and squatted down on his heels, setting the bowl and the pillow just out of arm's reach. It smelled like chicken soup, and made him realize abruptly that he'd forgotten to check his stomach, which was now reminding him just how empty it was. When had he eaten last…?

"-en sleeping since last night, actually; I'm glad you don't have a concussion or anything. I checked your pupils but they were dilating normally, so I assumed it was just a bad bump. What _were_ you doing out there, anyway?" The man's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Huh?"

The man blinked. "You wandered onto the road at two o'clock last night in the pouring rain and I hit you with my car because it was two o'clock at night and I wasn't expecting anything like it. Why were you out so late two miles past city limits in such bad weather?"

James eyed the soup. "What's in the soup?"

"Wha-? Oh. Chicken noodle. From a can, I have to admit."

"Gimme that and I'll talk."

The man nodded, picked up the pillow and slipped a hand gently under his shoulder, then jerked back in surprise when James flinched violently away.

"Fucking hell? Don't touch me!"

The man scooted back, hands raised. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you could sit up on-"

James pulled himself savagely upright. The room lurched disorientatingly around him, then settled out. "Don't tell me what I can fucking do. Now gimme the goddamn soup."

The man looked as though he'd say something for a moment, then frowned and handed over the soup, settling cross-legged on the pillow himself.

James glowered at the man for a moment to get the point across before the smell of the soup overcame his pride and he gulped it down, burning his tongue and not caring. Pain was pain was pain was one more point the world got against him but hell, it tasted good so score one for him.

After he had peeled the last noodle of the bottom of the bowl and swallowed it he dropped the bowl between them on the floor with a satisfying clatter. The man raised an eyebrow again, didn't say anything again. Just sat cross-legged, hands on knees, watching. James glared back. His head hurt. When was the last time that it hadn't? Fuck. The man was still looking at him.

"What?"

"I asked you a question."

Oh. What had he been doing last night…? Couldn't remember. "Fuck you. Did you drug the soup?"

This surprised the man. "Why would I?"

He didn't know. "Fuck you. People do weird shit."

"I didn't drug the soup."

"You better _not _have."

"Why were you out so late last night, two miles past the city limits?"

"Fuck you."

"You did say you'd talk."

"Make me."

"Where do you live? I'll drive you home."

He didn't live anywhere. He was running away. That was what he'd been doing, he remembered now. He'd stolen that old lady's purse, she'd been fucking loaded, he'd gone out and gotten drunk and it had been too long since he'd eaten so it got to him faster than he'd thought it would…

"What did you do with my stuff?"

"Your suitcase? I have it."

"Give it back."

"Give me an answer."

"I ran away. Got lost. What are you going to do about it?" James sneered. Like this man would have the balls to take him to the police.

"Give you back your 'stuff'. Hold on."

The man left, taking the bowl and unused spoon with him. He returned with the battered suitcase and two apples, one of which he handed to James and the other he continued eating.

James raised the apple, hesitated. Fruit? Nerdy. What he wouldn't give for some soda or some shit like that. A fucking apple.

His stomach grumbled. He was still hungry…He crunched into it angrily as he checked through his case. Clothes, still some money, CDs, player, sketchbook, tools. Supplies. All there. He glanced over at the man, who was watching him neutrally.

"It reeks."

"Fuck you."

"Would you like me to wash your clothes for you? Today's my laundry day anyway."

"What are you, mother fucking Teresa?"

"The man didn't respond.

"Yeah, fuck, sure." James said, tossing the admittedly filthy clothes at him. The man caught them, set them beside him, resumed waiting.

"What?"

"What are the metalworking tools for?"

"None of your goddamned business."

The man waited.

"I said-"

"I know."

More waiting. James studied the room. There was a widow, smallish, on the wall at the foot of the cot, opposite the door. Sky outside, still raining. Part of a tree at the very edge, green, dancing in the wind. Nice. Not a sickly city-tree. Where the fuck were they, anyway?

"I do jewelry and stuff," James said finally. "Armbands. Necklaces. Earrings. Shit like that." He checked the still-neutral expression on the man's face. Don't tell him about the knives, he decided. He was halfway done with a good one, it'd kill him if it got taken like the last one. He'd found good steel to work with this time, too, off an old cleaver, fifties metal- enough for pretty much anything he could think of and there were so many possibilities- he'd used up half his sketchbook. Stainless, shone like silver. Didn't make metal like that anymore. Took forever to trim down, drill through, he'd had to steal a new set of drills because his old ones hadn't made a dent. Was going to be fucking beautiful...

"Did you do the rings on your face?"

"Uh? Oh. Yeah." James tipped his chin up, curled a lip. _What are you going to do about it, huh?_

"I like the dragon one."

"Wha-You do?"

"Yes. It's an interesting design."

"Really?" James glanced back at the man, serious expression his long face, big elbow of a nose. Faggot wasn't joking? Fuck, of course he was. He gave the man his best sneer. "Ha ha _haaa_."

The man shrugged, picked up the dirty laundry, walked out, paused at the door.

"Don't try to get up with those ribs. Call me if you need anything. Name's Edgar. Edgar Vargas."

James flopped back on the cot, resigned himself to the growing fatigue simmering behind his eyes. Watched the man stand upside-down. Cracked ribs, fuck, that would take a lot out of him for awhile to deal with. But the dude didn't seem too bad. He'd wait awhile, find out the deal. He was good at that shit. Hurt to talk.

He felt too hot.

"Edgar... Hell of a name. Your parents must have hated you… Call you Eddy?"

The man smiled a little.

"Is that an 'i-e' or a 'y'?"

"'Y', I guess."

"By all means, then. Your name?"

"I- uh. James." Huh. Been a long while since anyone had asked that question. Felt weird, saying it out loud, talking to another person. Screaming didn't really count…

"Call if you need anything, Jimmy."

"Issat with an 'i-e' or a 'y'?" Jimmy muttered, yawning.

"With a 'y'."

"Nhhh." He managed, before keeping his eyes open was too much to bother with.


	2. Chapter 2

OOO

James woke up again, the light through the window faint. Twilight. Not as good as midnight but almost. After inventory –his head hurt less, his ribs more, however that worked, throat worse, fuck, everything worse and he felt horribly sick- he lay for awhile, puzzling over the man. Edga- Eddy. Weird. Names... A rose by- names- a rose. A rose is a rose is a rose is by any other name would smell as sweet is a rose. What light through yonder window…? Where the fuck had that come from? Fucking school. He was thirsty. The blankets weighed too much. He was burning up…fuck, as if he needed a fever. Fucking school. Fucking faggot. Water…he'd kill for a soda. A rose by any other name.

"Hey-?" He tried to call, his voice cracked painfully. Throat hurt. Shit…He was thirsty. From what he knew his newest fuck-up would be sucking the juice out of him to heal. He just wished it didn't have to hurt so much…yeah, in the gloom he could see the dying ditched blood under his skin, big-ass bruise spreading beyond where the man had bandaged him. Purple already, how long had he been out? Was it still the same day? What light- shut up. Not helping. Could he get up? Ow, fuck. Yeah. Jam- Jimmy, he liked the sound of that, had a ring. Sounded tough, Jimmy my boy, frag this bastard. Get. Up. Yeah, ech, the floor was cold. Bastard took his socks, sneakers. He'd liked those sneakers. When had he gotten this fucking fever? Hot, too hot. Floor felt good…fuck you, James, Jimmy, get the fuck off the floor and get some water. You're fucking pathetic. Get up.

Jimmy made it to the door, shaking, bad fever. Couldn't remember it ever being this bad. Did the man infect him or something? Maybe he worked for a chemical plant, something like that. Poisoned him like a rat. That's what he was, a white lab rat with little whiskery fucking cheeks. Used for fucking experiments. He was going to find the faggot and bury his burning foot in the bastard's ass for this. Fucking lab rat. White rat. White rose, by any other name- shut up. Shut up, get up. At the door…Jimmy glanced around. Hallway, bathroom on the left, turn on the right. He staggered to the bathroom, got to the toilet in time to throw up. What was in the fucking soup? That had to have been it. He retched again, then rinsed his mouth out in the sink, spat, flushed, saw the shower. God, he was hot. Turned the faucet on, stared at the stream for awhile. What had he been doing? Oh. Shit, shit, this was bad. This was really bad. Poisoned soup. The water felt so good…

Heard footsteps above him, hand on his forehead, colder than his skin and warmer than the water, ahhhh. Felt weird. Felt kinda nice.

"You're burning up. I didn't know you had a fever. Is that why you were wandering?"

"Don' touch me." He muttered. Keep holding my head. Feels nice. He hurt all over… "Lemme 'lone." He tired to open his eyes, managed a brief smeary blur of the ceiling, the top of the open shower stall's door, Eddy with worried eyes and a towel, turning off the water. "Don't turn'a water off."

"You'll only get sicker. You shouldn't have even gotten out of bed, I heard you." Hand on forehead again, ah, fingers peeling back his lips, checking his tongue. "That's a flu if I've ever seen one. You'll get pneumonia…look, walk with me, you can do that, sit on the toilet."

"Fuck you." Jimmy sagged against the wall. He wanted back in the shower, under the cool water. Darkness behind his eyelids itchy and red. Pills in his mouth, pressure on his sore throat and he swallowed them. Tylenol, god, he hoped it was something like that. He didn't have the money for E or anything…

"Hold your arms up."

"I don'-"

"_Do it_."

Whoah. Jimmy held his arms up, let the man peel off the soaked gauze. Hurt. New stuff being wrapped on, fuck- He hissed. Why would this guy have bandages for a broken rib? Maybe he _was _being held for some fucked up experiment.

"Shhh. It'll be okay, You can't go to sleep with wet bandages. Okay, you're set. Come on, we have to get you back to the bed. You can do it." Talking to a baby, god, that really pissed him off. Did he look like a baby? Hanging on the guy's shoulder, shaky steps back to his room. Felt so good to lie back down, he wasn't hot anymore, trembling, needed more blankets.

"You'll be okay, Jimmy. Go to sleep."

OOO

He woke up again.

And again. He didn't know what time it was, where he was, what was going on except fever, fever, god he was going to die, he wished he were dead already but he'd never finish that one knife and he couldn't just go out like that, pathetic little flu. It should take more. He woke up screaming. He woke up crying. He woke up bolting down food he couldn't taste and food that made him want to freeze time it tasted so fucking good, he woke up retching again and again. He woke up clinging to the man's shirt, not sure if he was retching or sobbing or if the constant litany –I hate you I hate you I hateyouIhateyou_hateyouhateyouhate_- was being said aloud or wrapped though every shred of his existence or even who was saying it to whom. And in between the nightmare thorns of consciousness were long, twisted vines of terror and dreaming where he was knee-high again and something huge was stalking after him, full of booze and boiling fury, where he walked though halls of mocking wraiths that broke and scattered like poisoned shadows.

It broke, finally, and James- Jimmy- woke up one morning with a foul taste in his mouth and an exhausted body worn hollow by the fight. But no fever. He'd won and he could think again. He laughed, weakly, with triumph if not amusement and pushed himself to his feet, ribs screaming but he didn't give a damn.

Clutching his side he staggered out –right, this time, to the end of the hall. He was sick of being sick in that bare-ass little room.

There was a little kitchen, all white paint and shiny silver- coffeemaker, blender, microwave, fancy looking buttons, clean plastic. New models, sweet- expensive as hell. Faggot was loaded. Fridge, yes yes thank you, god- soda. Cherry soda. Jimmy snagged one, gulped half of it in one pull. A far cry from booze but the caffeine might as well as been liquid gold for all he cared. Made him feel human again. He finished the can off, checked for a trashcan but gave up. Who knew what it even looked like in a room like this? He left the can in the sink and got another one. And in the sleek little designer cupboards there were bags of stuff, stuff with salt and grease and food-coloring: health-food chips, 'potato flavored pressed rice crackers'- Jesus, robot food. Jimmy found a few bags of popcorn –hah, soda wasn't the only little sin the fucker indulged in, was it?- and jammed two in the microwave, fiddled with the buttons until the timer started counting down from five.

"You shouldn't be up."

"Yagh-!" Jimmy nearly hit the ceiling, throwing by reflex what he had in his hand directly at his attacker's face.

Only it wasn't an attacker, it was just that guy, Eddy, the guy who's soda he'd just bounced off the dude's skull and spattered all over the floor, the wall, and their clothes. Well, Eddy's clothes and Jimmy's bandages. And pants. And feet. Bleagh. Jimmy tried to see through the constellation of little stars prompted by the ripping agony jarred loose by his throw. His heart sent judders of fire against the inside of his chest every time it beat, which it did far too fast. He'd slid against the wall without noticing it…

"Correction," Eddy said dryly, "You shouldn't be up, and you shouldn't be drinking soda. Caffeine has a detrimental effect on the healing process. I suppose I don't have to tell you not to make sudden wrenching movements with your arms, do I?"

"Hhhhhh." Jimmy wheezed, scrabbling at the cupboard handles beside him to lever himself up. "What are you, a fucking em-dee?"

"Was. Now I'm just the man who's got to change those oh-so-tasty-bandages you've got. Your ribs are never going to heel with all the fuss." In a few deft movements the man had levered Jimmy up and onto the countertop, one hand around his shoulders and the other on his forehead. The feeling was oddly familiar, and Jimmy wondered how many times Eddy had done this to him. Bleary memories of gulping down water, soup, cool hands.

"Don't t-" But Eddy's hands were already gone as the man held them up in an I-surrender-pose, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

"You're lucid, at least. I suppose the fever's broken, though you're still warm. Sit there and try not to throw anything else at my head while I get a mop."

"Wai-"

Eddy stuck hi head back through the door. "Yes?"

"How long have- have I been out?"

"Seven days exactly, actually. Pretty typical for a case like yours. Hold on."

The man returned quickly with a mop and bucket, began sopping up the pink stain on the checkered linoleum. "So as I was saying, you're…what? Seventeen?"

"Twenty –five."

Eddy shot him a look, that faint smile and raised eyebrow. "Do I look like I'm that stupid?"

"Ye-" Jimmy hesitated mid-word, glared. _Fuck._ "Alright, twenty one."

"You haven't even got shoulders to fill into, and if you're legal age to be as skunked as I saw you I'm queen of England."

"Pleased to meet you, your majesty." Jimmy said acidly. Eddy nodded amiably.

"I'll accept nineteen."

"Well isn't that decent of you, letting me be the age I am."

"You're welcome."

"It's only two years, you know. No big deal."

"To twenty one? Tell it to your liver."

"Fuck my liver."

"You're doing a good job of that yourself. And when was the last time you brushed your teeth?"

"Fuck you."

Eddy finished with the last of the pink stain.

"So, now what?"

"You tell me."

"Gimme another soda."

"Get it yourself."

Jimmy shifted his weight, winced. Eddy had effectively trapped the young man there- it would hurt too much to slide off the counter, even though his feet were only half a foot off.

"You're the one who said I shouldn't be moving."

"And you're the one who moved anyway. You're having something with actual protein in it, if you're hungry, then you are brushing your teeth, and going back to bed."

Jimmy snarled quietly. "I'm sick of that crappy little room."

"So stay there."

Jimmy kicked his heels in irritation, then stopped hastily.

"Fine. What's for dinner?"

The microwave took that moment to catch on fire. Both of them stared at it in surprise for a moment, then Eddy deftly jammed on the open-button on the door with the mop handle, scowling. With a gleeful sizzle the machine opened, pouring out billows of greasy smoke and blackened popcorn. Coughing, the man turned and ripped the window over the sink open, waving away the smoke. Jimmy sat on the counter, not sure whether he should feeling guilty or what. After a moment of reflection, watching the split smoking bags of popcorn twitch and jerk on the floor amid still-popping kernels, he chose sadistic amusement and doubled over laughing, as Eddy gingerly disconnected the microwave with the mop handle, levered it on its back, and poured a bowlful of water inside. After the pain outweighed the amusement Jimmy's laughter trailed off, and he looked up to see the taller, bigger, and stronger man standing with the mop outstretched like a sword, a very unhappy look on his face.

Shit.

"You owe me a new microwave, young man." Eddy declaimed with odd formality. "And two bags of popcorn."

Shit!

"What for?" He snapped. "It's your fucking microwave that couldn't cook two bags of your popcorn!"

"And you are the little shit-for-brains who put it in on five minutes."

"So? Youtrapped me on the counter, why didn't you take them out?"

"Because you were distracting me."

"Oh, so it's all my fault then?" Jimmy asked, as sarcastically as he knew how.

"Yep."

Awww, fuck. "Fuck you!"

"You and that phrase. Now then-" Eddy glanced around at the wreck of the kitchen, "You are going back to bed."

"Why can't I stay up?"

"Because you've done quite enough damage for a mere quarter of an hour, and talking to you is giving me a headache. Now go."

"Get me off this counter."

"I thought you didn't want me to touch you."

Jimmy sneered. "Ha ha, smartass. Now come and get me off."

Eddy eased him off the counter with surprising grace, let him walk down the hallway himself, herding him into the bathroom. Jimmy scowled when a toothbrush –black, though- was held menacingly in front of him.

"Just do it already. I can wait all afternoon."

Jimmy stuck his tongue out at him with deliberately childish satisfaction, then snatched the toothbrush and scrubbed at his teeth for awhile, leaning his forehead against the cold mirror. Even the short outing he'd made from his cell had left him trembling...

"Happy now, mother?" He finally said, rinsing the toothbrush out and slapping it down on the counter. But Eddy had already left, down the hall and off to wherever he spent his time while not pissing Jimmy off.

Jimmy staggered back to his room and his cot and drifted off, strangely disappointed.

OOO


	3. Chapter 3

Jimmy rounded the final corner, ribs aching sullenly but fuck _that_ shit, if he had to stare at the ceiling like a good little boy one more minute he was going to snap. Eagerly he pushed back the simple latch, shoved the door open –it stuck weird- and staggered as a blast of soft, humid air washed over his face.

The end of the hall opened on to…a garden? But there was a roof, all glass squares and plastic sheeting and slats…he could see the sky, a weird aqua through the tint. It was muggy out- in here. Humid. But he couldn't have been taken that far, it was only…what season was it, anyway? Jimmy couldn't remember. Cities didn't really have seasons, but the fourth of July hadn't even geared up with all that patriotic bullshit so maybe spring?

It was certainly spring in here…Pots of wildly bright flowers and trays of earth and tender sprouts clustered along the winding central walkways, tables and shelves scattered at what looked like random all over, lifting bright bursts of a particular color or just more soft green out of the tangled riot at knee level. Jimmy swallowed hard, brushed some hair out of his eyes. This was insane. It was fucking _insane_. Like real life could come up with something like this? Flowers and shit were like…dandelions. Roses, daises. Tulips, maybe. He'd seen those. But this, this was like in sucky movies, where you know everything's going to turn out fucking perfect anyway so why bother seeing it? Where the happy hero and his stupid friend save the day. Fucking right.

God _damn_ it, he was dreaming and he'd have to fucking wake up and get to the end of the hall all over again. The first time took too long as it was. Jimmy scowled and kicked at a stack of what looked like bags of dirt. Who would bother to put dirt in bags? Didn't it just sort of…exist? Bagging dirt! Next thing he knew they'd be bottling air, wouldn't they? Like those stupid bottles of water idiots bought because god forbid they'd get toxi-whatsists in their precious perfect bodies, the hippy freaks. Pfff.

"There you are."

Jimmy glanced up sharply as Eddy approached, a weird little shovel-thing in one hand, a smear of dirt across one cheek.

"What?' He asked, defensively. "I'm not going back to that stupid room again, man."

Eddy frowned at him vaguely. "What? Oh. No, never mind, just get me one of those bags and follow me, okay? I was just coming to get you- there's so much to do that always seems to need two more hands than you have and now I've actually got them."

"Got what?"

"You. Bag. Now." Eddy had already started to head off again. Jimmy eyed one of the bags. It smelled…weird. Not like dirt- thicker and richer. Sort of marshy.

"My ribs hurt." He called. "I don't think I should be carrying shit like this."

"So go back to your room."

Jimmy scowled and picked up one of the bags. It was heavier than it looked. Not so heavy he couldn't carry it but almost…he staggered after the man down the path- through more ridiculous flowers- and was finally given a nod and a vague gesture at a thickly-built splintery wooden table.

Jimmy dropped it with an all-too-audibly-relieved grunt- only idiots thought you couldn't hurt in dreams. He'd heard someone say that once, that all you had to do to know you were in a dream was pinch yourself and it wouldn't hurt- hah, try having one of the ones where there was something growing in your head and the only way was to peel the skin back, inch by agonizing inch, feel the slick tender skin of the empty inside of your skull. Try having one of the one's where the monster actually catches you and say that you know it's a dream because it doesn't hurt. Jimmy figured that you'd just know, if you were in a dream and bothered to think of it, like now- idiots just never bothered. Maybe they were too stupid.

Eddy made a little impatient noise and jolted Jimmy out of his thoughts.

"Perhaps you should go get some more rest." Eddy said, eying him. "You don't look so good."

"Fuck you." Jimmy snapped automatically, leaning gingerly against the table. Took the opportunity to look around more. It would be cool if he remembered this…hah, he could tell Eddy. He could say, you had this big-ass gay glass room outside full of all these beu…full of gay flowers. What kind of dude had a big glass room full of stupid gay flowers?

"Me."

"What?" Oh, he'd muttered that out loud. "Shut up."

"You asked." Eddy shrugged, slitted the bag of dirt open with a smoothly efficient swipe of the weird little shovel. It was more like a big pointy spoon. Looked like heavy steel, cast for weight and strength- looked like it could chew a file up like fuck and spit it out but _damn_, would that thing ever hold an edge.

"What's that spoon-thing you have?" Jimmy asked, curious.

"Trowel." Eddy grunted, pulling shallow trays off one of the freestanding shelves, laying them out on the table. "Help me lay these out."

Jimmy awkwardly took a few, tried to spread them out in a rough grid. Eddy nodded approval and flitted off with disturbing speed- the man moved awkwardly but he was quick, and barely brushed the plants he moved through- and before Jimmy had finished arranging the trays around the central flayed bag of smelly dirt Eddy was back, a handful of little white packets in one hand, two chopsticks in another.

"Poppies." He said, tucking the packets on the shelf they'd taken the trays from. "I really should be more organized- I had these over in perennials. Hah."

Jimmy grunted. Poppies? Those red flowers. No, orange. Maybe there were more than one kind. Didn't they make you…sleep or something? That stupid movie. Eddy was…growing…medical doctor. So maybe he was growing drugs or shit. Just his luck.

Oh, yeah. This was a dream. Not a bad one, either. Beat watching the ceiling. Jimmy took the trowel that was handed to him and watched as Eddy scooped double-handfuls of the dirt into the trays, filling each mostly full and roughly smoothing over the top in quickly efficient movements.

"-it's a little late in spring but I figured, probably won't hurt- I moved quite a lot of stock the other day and there's that one spot free now in the east corner that collects all the ambient condensation in the afternoon," Eddy paused to wipe at his forehead, leaving another streak of dirt, smiled gently, continued on. "-The little sprouts won't know the difference and there's always something rather funny about poppies in autumn, they're such a summer flower. Hope… well, those are daffodils, those are already dying. Irony, hmm? But I believe poppies are…"

Eddy glanced up, a strange consideration in his eyes. He wasn't wearing his glasses…It was humid in here, that would make sense. Brown eyes, brown like his hair, brown as the smudges of dirt across his face. "Consolation." Eddy said, turning the word over in his mouth thoughtfully. "Huh." A quick smile, a little twisted, and the man was off again, the bag almost empty. "Take a chopstick and start making furrows, will you?"

"Huh? Oh." Jimmy blinked, took the stick. Watched awkwardly as the man began dragging neat parallel indentations through the dirt, three to a tray and on to the next one. Gingerly tried a row of his own- huh. Easy, though moving his shoulders like that hurt more than he'd like. He finished one tray and started another. Might as well.

"Every flower has a meaning, you know." Eddy said casually. "I figure that maybe everything has a meaning, plants and rocks and people. But that's the way people just are- give meaning to things that didn't have it. You give something a name and it becomes that name, really. And in the begging there was the word and the word was God…" Another quick smile, dark as dirt. "Hah. Names. Man remakes the world every day in his own image…"

Jimmy shifted his weight, fingers tightening on the wooden stick. "That's…what? Bible? You're _religious_?" Fuck, not another freak- one more bastard ranting about hell and he was going to carve the man a new mouth in his gut.

Eddy laughed gently, almost embarrassed. Ran a hand through damp hair "Not so much in the strict sense, but yeah. You could say that."

Jimmy relaxed a little. "So…God? Jesus?"

"You could say that."

Jimmy grinned bitterly. "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"

Eddy frowned, balling the empty plastic bag up and stuffing it into the shelf. "I don't see how I should be able to tell. You don't seem like such a bad person."

Jimmy grimaced. Well, better than getting some long-ass stupid lecture on shaping up or shipping out. Down. Heh.

Eddy snagged a packet off the shelf and ripped the top open. He began shaking out tiny little flakes –seeds- on to the dirt, along the little ditches they'd dug with the chopsticks. So many of them… Jimmy watched, fascinated despite himself. Why so many of them? Maybe Eddy was going to split them up?

"Not all of them sprout," Eddy explained, doing the creepy mind-reading thing again as he saw Jimmy reach out to pick up one of the tiny little grains. "You have to sow a lot of them. It'll work out. Actually poppies are pretty good, you scatter them pretty thinly. Stretches out the pack."

Another little paper rip, another tray filed. Jimmy watched in silence, growing sleepy with the soft damp warmth of this huge glass room, with the quick repetitive pattern of packets. He fought with a yawn and lost, then glared at Eddy when the man raised an eyebrow.

"So why all these flowers?" Might as well ask. You rarely woke up during explanations…

"I grow them…take them into the city in the morning, drop them out at flower vendors. Bouquets. You know."

Jimmy hadn't.

"The hours are pretty strange, so I haven't been around as much as I should have been. The vendors need to have enough time to set things up, so my morning pretty much starts at two. That's how I ran into you…" Eddy smiled, shrugged, ripped open a new packet. "I don't need much sleep…."

Didn't need was one thing, Jimmy knew, and didn't want was another. Judging by the dark circles around the man's brown eyes that the thick glass and distracting reflections hid, the man needed more than he wanted. That sleek, expensive looking coffee-maker was probably getting plenty of mileage…

"It's hard, dirty work, but so was being a doctor." Eddy said quietly, watching his own hands move quickly, efficiently, tired brown eyes distant. "There's no blood here. It's a good place, here. No death. No despair- you don't get life in hospitals, you know. You get recovery, if you're lucky and didn't fuck up and the case wasn't hopeless to begin with. Or you get death."

"Flowers die too." Jimmy said. Eddy glanced up, eyes with that same wild intent look.

"They're only flowers."

Jimmy looked away, uncomfortable. "Well, yeah."

Eddy broke his gaze with a short harsh sigh, ran a hand through his hair. "Should have pulled out when I started knowing the morticians by first name, huh? But flowers are better- simple stories. Harmless color. And they fade and die and it's not your fault."

Jimmy glanced down at the chopstick still in his hands, set it down. Resisted the urge to pick up that trowel. "I didn't ask for the fucking sob story." He said bluntly, testing.

Eddy smiled again, that twisted dirt-dark grin. "Well, that's life for you, Jimmy. You don't get what you ask for. Now go wash up and go back to bed, you've had quite enough exercise for today."

"But-"

"Go."

"But I'm already asleep, this is a dream."

Eddy paused, surprised. "What?"

Jimmy rolled his eyes. Bastard was clueless even in dreams. "Like some shit like this big glass room shit and these flowers could exist in real life?"

"Well, yes, they could." Eddy said, the surprise giving way to amusement. "You've never seen a greenhouse before?"

"Gee, let me think." Jimmy sneered. "How about _no_?"

Eddy shrugged. "Well, now you have. And I don't care if this is a dream, go away."

"But-"

"_Go_."


End file.
